


Bad Influences of the Refined Elvish Society

by holy_milk



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Beards (Facial Hair), Crack Treated Semi-Seriously, Gen, Humor, as in beor losses his beard, finrod still knows very little about his hairy men, rated Teen and Up for beor being mildly horny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:46:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27119066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holy_milk/pseuds/holy_milk
Summary: One morning Bëor wakes up to find his beard completely gone.
Relationships: Bëor the Old/Finrod Felagund | Findaráto
Comments: 6
Kudos: 24





	Bad Influences of the Refined Elvish Society

**Author's Note:**

> First I wrote [this post](https://venwe.tumblr.com/post/632487821569081344/) and then it all snowballed from there.

The gentle pink rays of dawn were seeping into the windows of Bëor’s bedroom, brought into the kingdom of stone and rock by a complex system of mirrors and light shafts that the man knew very little about. He peeked out from beneath his half-closed lids and took a good stretch, yawning sleepily. Then he scratched his chin and frowned deeply.

Something was off.

He tossed the covers aside and, without even bothering to put on his shoes, plodded barefoot towards the gold-framed mirror that hung on the opposite wall. Encrusted with diamonds and emeralds, it stood out against his otherwise humble dwelling the same way Finrod stood out against the chilly darkness of the night the first time they met. Coincidentally, the mirror was a gift of the king.

The face that stared at Bëor from out of the glassy surface looked at least a decade younger than it did the night before; and while it could hardly be called ‘smooth’, it was entirely hairless. Well, save for the eyebrows. Those, fortunately, were still in place.

Bëor pinched his cheek to make sure that his eyes were not playing tricks on him.

“Huh,” was all he could say to his own reflection.

* * *

A couple of hours later he was back in his bed, his duties for the day entirely forgotten. Finrod was also there, clenching his hand painfully.

“I knew this day would come, but I was never— I could never—” the king’s voice wavered and he broke into tears.

Bëor cleared his throat.

“What do you think is going on?” he asked, confused by this sudden outburst of emotion.

It took some time for Finrod to stop his uncontrollable weeping.

“What else can it be?” he asked hoarsely, using his long sleeve to wipe at his eyes and nose in the most un-kingly way possible. “You’re dying.”

Bëor blinked again. Then he reached out to cup Finrod’s lovely face in his hand as gently as he could.

“Darling,” he said, careful to keep any hints of exasperation out of his voice; it was clear that his beloved king was already going through a lot, “while I may not be particularly experienced at dying myself, I’ve seen enough of death in my life to know that shedding one’s beard is not a part of it.”

Finrod let out a soft hiccup.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Absolutely,” said Bëor. “Besides, what would I be dying from? I’m still quite young.”

“Are you?” Finrod asked, mildly incredulous, and Bëor felt a prick of hurt.

There was a sound of a door being opened, and a tall grey figure stepped into the room. It was Mirion, one of the many healers that had conducted a very thorough and tiresome physical examination of the man over the course of the past couple of hours. Some of the procedures had been quite… invasive.

“My lord, we have reached a conclusion,” he said solemnly, and Finrod whirled around anxiously.

“Well?” he demanded.

Mirion took a deep breath, as if getting ready to plunge into a dark and cold lake, and announced, “Your Majesty, this Man called Bëor here is perfectly healthy in all ways related to his line of duty… and some more.”

Bëor grinned smugly and nudged Finrod with an elbow, giving him a meaningful wink. The king, however, looked crestfallen.

“What do you mean ‘healthy’?” he asked, raising his voice. “His beard has fallen out!”

“Well,” the healer shifted uneasily under the king’s heavy gaze, “as of now, we don’t have enough medical information about the race of Men to speculate about the causes and factors contributing to the loss of one’s facial hair, but if I could bring forward a hypothesis—it would need more evidence before any kind of theory is formulated, of course, but—"

“Oh, get on with it,” barked Bëor, not as much for his own sake as for Finrod’s.

Mirion gave him an indignant look.

“It has been noted over the past few years that Men who come into close contact with our people tend to become more… well, Eldar-like, as much as that is possible in their,” he gave Bëor a quick wary look, “lamentable state of existence. Their lives become longer, they experience less drawbacks of old age, and their overall health and quality of life improve drastically. Thus it is not entirely impossible that consequences of the prolonged contact may include the loss of some characteristically Mannish traits, such as—well, such as the abundant growth of facial and body hair among other things.”

Finrod blinked.

“So what you’re saying is,” he said slowly, “we’re rubbing off onto Bëor?”

The healer considered that for a moment.

“I suppose you could put it that way,” he conceded carefully.

“Oh goodness,” Bëor scratched his non-existent beard thoughtfully.

* * *

Under Felagund’s orders he was confined to one week of bed rest — just in case. Bëor didn’t particularly mind. He may not have been particularly old (and was eager to prove it whenever Finrod began doubting him), but he was already nearing that age when spending days with a good book in one’s bed appears way more preferable than running around like a beheaded chicken.

And Finrod came to keep him company in the evening, too.

“I shouldn’t spend so much time around you,” he remarked once.

Bëor gave him a worried look.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“You are never going to grow that beard back if I keep projecting my anti-beardiness aura onto you.”

“I was actually thinking I prefer it this way,” the man shrugged. “Less things to worry about in terms of proper hygiene.”

Finrod let out a heavy sigh.

“That’s a pity,” he murmured, staring off wistfully into the distance. “I really liked that beard.”

**Author's Note:**

> I may have taken some liberties with how old Bëor the Old was when he went to live with Finrod (the story is set about a year after that). The only thing I can say in my defense is that I did literally no research before writing this.


End file.
